


The Uses of Sorrow

by lurrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur's learned this lesson before." Arthur is working for Saito at Fischer-Morrow. Robert notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Uses of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> "The Uses of Sorrow"  
> Mary Oliver
> 
>  
> 
> _(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)_
> 
>  
> 
> Someone I loved once gave me  
> a box full of darkness.
> 
> It took me years to understand  
> that this, too, was a gift.

Saito catches Arthur’s arm in the baggage claim of LAX.  
  
Arthur’s hands are shaking, maybe with the residual effects of heavy sedation, maybe due to the way relief isn’t overwhelming the heavy feeling in his chest, pressing on his lungs.  
  
Arthur is watching Dom Cobb leave. Arthur is watching two years of his life end.  
  
He turns and glances at Saito, who’s breaking post-job protocol in the worst way. Saito gives him a sly quirk of the mouth, and tilts his head, and says, “I hear you might need a job.”  
  
-  
  
The first time Robert Fischer notices him, it's three weeks into his tail, and they're in an art gallery in downtown Sydney. Arthur's dressed up, bespoke in a way he doesn't normally bother with, glass of Riesling in hand, and he can feel the instant Fischer's eyes catch his own from across the room.  
  
Arthur breaks eye contact first, right after the first tiny, confused flicker of something like recognition in Fischer’s eyes, and turns to look at a painting up for sale. He can hear Fischer moving toward him and he forces himself not to bolt, not to draw any more undue suspicion. Fischer’s name wasn’t on the list of people attending this opening -- Arthur’s there to hobnob with people two tiers lower than CEO, to size them up for Saito. To find which pieces of the Fischer-Morrow empire are going to be integrated into where. Which ones Proclus should snap up.   
  
"I got dragged here by a friend," Fischer says, conspiratorially. His gait is calm and smooth as he slides up to Arthur's side. “But I’m surprised to see an unfamiliar face at a Fischer-Morrow event.”  
  
The smile on his lips lets Arthur know that when Fischer looked over at him, it wasn’t with recollection.  
  
"I've been told I need to be more social," he replies, easily, sharp smile. He's playing a man made up of angles and edges, so he bares his teeth just a little when they shake hands.  
  
"Robert Fischer." The man's cool and confident, sliding both hands over Arthur's one. He knows exactly how to move into Arthur’s space, just how to crowd him. Knows exactly what his name means.  
  
"Arthur," he says, "Arthur Cohen." Their handshake is firm but neutral, and Fischer’s hands are soft.  
  
It’s an identity he’s worn before, so it’s traceable, historied. He doesn’t like crawling into new skin very often because it’s risky. His hair is sheared short, he’s wearing designer glasses, it should be enough.  
  
Arthur's staring at some outsider art that's absolutely hideous – block colors and thick black outlines depicting what he thinks is a farmhouse.  
  
“You don't look like you're having a great time,” Fischer says, signaling one of the butlers over to them.  
  
They're about the same height, similar builds, though Arthur doubts Fischer is full of as much raw power. He probably sticks to cardio, running, maybe some cycling. A personal trainer to keep him lean. Never broken someone else’s bone.  
  
“I love a good gallery,” Arthur says, because it's true. Cohen did his undergraduate work in art history, thought about museum studies but went into business instead.  
  
“I don't know if I would call this a  _good_  gallery,” Fischer says, handing Arthur a flute of champagne pulled from a tray. Arthur tips back what’s left of his wine, hands off the glass, and shrugs. There’s a glint of mischief in Fischer’s eyes, as though he’s enjoying his little foray out with the commoners.  
  
Fischer’s charming and that puts Arthur on edge. He doesn’t trust charming; extractors are always all suave confidence and white teeth and they –  
  
Robert Fischer smiles.  
  
It’s dangerous, and the solutions seem obvious, but Arthur lets the potential possibilities unfurl in his mind anyway. He could act cool and aloof, turn Fischer off, disappear. Tell Saito he's done, even though the splits and the buyouts aren't anywhere near complete and he doesn’t know how the land grants are going.  
  
He could smile back at Fischer and let him flirt; maybe they'd fuck. He's get closer, be able to glean more. And put himself at serious risk.  
  
It doesn't take him long to let his mouth curl into a smirk from behind the glass.  
  
Later, he puts a bid down on the piece, and makes a note to send it to Eames. He'll hate it.  
  
-  
  
"I've made contact," Arthur says into the phone cradled in between shoulder and ear. "He doesn't seem to recognize me." He’s living in a rented business apartment, furnished in a style he doesn’t hate but doesn’t love, dark woods and a white leather couch.  
  
"Yet," says Saito, and Arthur smiles.  
  
"Yet. Don't worry, I'll be careful," he says, and he can clearly picture the look on Saito’s face, just a hint of mischief. He loves the dangerous way.  
  
“I know you will. It’s why I hired you.”  
  
“They’re keeping a lot off the network,” Arthur says as he pours himself one last glass of wine for the evening, settling into the couch. The place should have a fireplace, he thinks.  
  
“I wouldn’t think that would be a problem for you.”  
  
“Yeah, well. It just takes time. I’m working on it.”  
  
“I did enjoy your most recent report.”  
  
“This job isn’t too bad,” he says, right before, “I gotta go.”  
  
-  
  
Arthur needs to make sure it isn’t something else, that it’s just attraction and not something dark and inscrutable that drew Fischer toward him.  
  
So Arthur watches Robert take a business lunch, watches him go out jogging, flanked by a security guards. Watches him sit in his house, twirling a pen between his fingers as he goes over reports.  
  
He seems lonely, Arthur thinks, but he doesn’t call. Yet.  
  
-  
  
Arthur Cohen is representing Morpheus Inc., a secretly held subsidiary of Proclus Global. He works in the wind energy sector, and is sitting in on a meeting with some lower level Fischer-Morrow project managers. Robert Fischer himself strolls in fifteen minutes before the end of the meeting, making a few points but mostly sitting leaned back in the leather chair, relaxed.  
  
At the end, Fischer manages to block his way out of the conference room. “Let me take you out to dinner,” Fischer says instead of hello.  
  
Arthur is so startled he just says, “Sure, that sounds good.”  
  
Fischer smiles and there’s an edge there, one Arthur hasn’t really seen. Cobb, who wouldn’t answer his phone, had at least deigned to email him a debrief – Fischer’s willingness to shoot himself in the head, his bleary resignation. There’s more spark now than when he was cuffed to a pipe.  
  
Arthur gives him a blander smile in return, hoping he doesn’t seem that remarkable. He needs to be attractive, not memorable. Not dangerous.  
  
-  
  
The dinner goes spectacularly well for Arthur Cohen’s love life, though it is less successful for Saito’s plan of world energy dominance.  
  
The most interesting thing he learns is: Robert Fischer isn’t boring.  
  
Arthur’s surprised, to be honest. He’s met a lot of heirs in his line of work, business officials, higher-ups, CEOs. They all blend together in a smear of white and middle-aged, dead eyed and too full of indulgences.  
  
Fischer isn’t like that. At dinner, he doesn’t talk about work at all. He knows how to guide a conversation so his companion feels at ease, spills everything.  
  
“Went to undergrad at NYU for art history,” Arthur Cohen says, easily, “then to Stanford for Environmental Science. Got my MBA at Georgetown.”  
  
Fischer let out a low whistle. “That’s quite the pedigree.”  
  
“Well, we can’t all go to Harvard.”Arthur keeps his smiles coy that evening. “Though I’ll cop to reading your  _Fortune_  profile to prep for this date.”  
  
Fischer arches an eyebrow. “Not many would be so candid. Did you also read my Wikipedia page?”  
  
“Guilty as charged. You’re much nicer looking in person though; you might want to have someone update that.”  
  
Fischer laughs. “I’ll get an assistant on it right away.”  
  
Dinner rolls easily, and Fischer doesn’t even get a bill at the end of the meal.  
  
“I was going to offer to go Dutch,” Arthur says, a little wryly.  
  
Fischer just waves a hand. “They know me here,” is all he says.  
  
-  
  
“Are the rumors true? Has Robert Fischer taken up with a low level-executive from the mysterious Morpheus Inc.?”  
  
Arthur grins. “ _Mid_ -level, thanks. And I told you incorporating would be the best way to do this, not only when you look at the amount of money you're shuffling.”  
  
Saito laughs, short and bright. “It is an innovative approach, I will admit, but the data you've returned is extraordinary.”  
  
“He took me to a work luncheon. Unsecured laptops everywhere.”  
  
Saito chuckles again. “Do not let your guard down just because of a little romance.”  
  
“We’re not diving into anything serious here, Saito.”  
  
Saito doesn’t seem bothered by the need for a slow seduction. “Perfect. The closer you are, the more you can observe.”  
  
“Then you’d better up my rates; they’re higher for corporate espionage,” Arthur snaps.  
  
Saito laughs into the phone. “Consider it done. I do hate loose ends.”  
  
The call leaves Arthur feeling strangely sullen.  
  
Corporate work has none of the rush of dream share. He’s not ready for that yet, though, he thinks, because of too many loose ends, most of them Cobb’s. He considers dialing Fischer.  
  
He doesn’t. Yet.  
  
-  
  
Robert Fischer is really devastatingly handsome, Arthur thinks as they sit in a private box at the Sydney Opera House. It's the kind of thought he doesn't normally let himself have when he's working, because he hates connecting with the mark on any kind of emotional level. It's Cobb's job to figure out the subject, anyway. Arthur's just there to lead the way. Was.  
  
And Fischer has an eye for nice things, elegant and cultured things. Things that match him in style, that will enhance him.  
  
“It’s nice to find someone who enjoys the opera rather than just tries to sit through it to impress me,” Fischer says.  
  
Arthur smiles a little, shrugs. “I came to it late in life, but I can say I enjoy it. Understand it, maybe not as much.”  
  
“Well, it’s tedious to watch with someone who can’t appreciate it.”  
  
They’re watching a production of  _Carmen_ . Arthur’s only passingly familiar with the genre because he had a squad mate in Afghanistan who found him woefully uncultured. He’d looked the opera up after Robert had swung by his office with tickets in a heavy cream envelope and a sweet black coffee.  
  
Robert smiles his most predatory smile and buys him a glass of overpriced wine in the lobby during intermission. During the second half Robert watches him with a hunger Arthur flushes under.  
  
He leans in and takes a kiss, hand on Arthur’s chin, after the house lights come back on. When he pulls away Robert just smiles and hums the Habanera softly.  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, “This is only our second date.”  
  
“You don’t strike me as the hard to get type.”  
  
“I’m trying something new,” he says, and he is unsettled to feel that it’s true.  
  
“I don’t like waiting,” Robert says, lightly, but.  
  
“On the other hand,” Arthur says evenly, eyeing the heavy curtains that can be shut for privacy, “I’ve never fucked in an opera house before.”  
  
Robert’s face lights up, smile no longer edged. He lifts a fine-boned hand to thumb gently at Arthur’s bottom lip and says, “Oh, I’m starting to like you.”  
  
-  
  
“I hear you've got a new boyfriend,” Eames says, voice rich even through the terrible connection.  
  
“I hope you liked your present,” Arthur answers.  
  
Eames laughs and Arthur smiles. It’s good to hear someone familiar who isn’t giving him orders.  
  
“Fucking atrocious, Arthur. I love it, it's hanging in a special place of honor in my entryway.”  
  
“I’m glad. I saw it and immediately thought it was made for you.”  
  
“You sound good. Relaxed, dare I say it.”  
  
“We've been running for a long time, Cobb and me. It’s nice to be in one place for more than a month.”  
  
“Take care of yourself. No one's going to come, guns blazing if your get your heart broken this time.”  
  
“It was just the once. And Perry broke my nose mostly because I was tailing him,” Arthur says. “I appreciated you breaking his collarbone, though. Saito is a gossipy fuck, isn’t he?”  
  
“Tomato, tomahto. And yes.”  
  
-  
  
  
When Robert's on a business trip, Arthur misses him, moping around his room and feeling distinctly ill at ease. He wants to sit and talk about stock prices, drink some wine that is absurdly expensive and made by monks.  
  
When Fischer video calls him, Arthur says “I missed you,” and it's so starkly genuine that his chest aches.  
  
Robert smiles, bright and happy into his webcam.  
  
Arthur, stupidly, finds himself falling. In something. With Fischer.  
  
-  
  
It’s a pattern. They build a routine, and Arthur isn’t sure if he wants  _that_ , wants to rely on anything being a constant (again).  
  
He’s going to have to leave soon enough. In a year maybe, when the job is over. He’s already too fidgety in meetings, itching for firearms and the adrenaline rush. If he could dream, he’d dream of cities and the power of his hands.  
  
But they meet every Thursday for lunch anyway, and they fuck all weekend, for a month. Fischer is busy, often, but Arthur isn’t exactly idle.  
  
-  
  
It’s too easy, eventually. It’s comfortable.  
  
Arthur can’t remember the last time something felt  _comfortable_ .  
  
He wakes up with the hair on the back of his neck prickling and thinks about other places he has settled.  
  
There aren’t many.  
  
So he thinks about places he could go, maybe just for a little while.  
  
“I’m going to have to cancel on our next lunch,” Arthur says into the phone. He’s packing idly, thinking about visiting Cobb, anything to get out of Sydney to someplace with no ice chip eyes and potential failure on his hands. Some place where he can slide back into himself to gauge if his feelings stay or live on his skin.  
  
“Oh?” Fischer’s voice is casual, tinged with disinterest and Arthur hates that he’s so easy to play.  
  
“Duty calls. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”  
  
“When do you fly out?”  
  
“Late tomorrow,” Arthur says and then he proceeds to hate himself some more.  
  
“Maybe we should do dinner tonight, then,” and it’s almost a purr, a promise, and Arthur doesn’t even try to make up excuses.  
  
“That sounds lovely,” he says and he’s smiling. He might even mean it.  
  
-  
  
Arthur stares at his closet and thinks about calling Eames. Eames is the only person he knows who can get ensnared without losing himself – Arthur’s known extractors, even military operatives in the field, to get caught up. To go native. He’s deep undercover, and he knows he’s started to justify this time with Fischer, telling himself he’s earned a break, that he deserves something nice for once, something simple.  
  
It’s so much easier to be Arthur Cohen, a warm thing to wrap around himself when he feels the isolation that comes with a mission like this. Cohen has friends, colleagues, parents, and a millionaire boyfriend.  
  
Except of course it could never ever be uncomplicated with Arthur. He’s never had a serious relationship as himself, for one. He wonders what Arthur Cohen’s thoughts are, if he too is gripped with a heady feeling when he makes Robert laugh.  
  
Arthur Cohen doesn’t live with the knowledge of going inside a person and twisting him into something different. Arthur’s never going to not know it when that new person is inside him.  
  
He picks the dove gray suit and slides it on, a new, fake skin.  
  
-  
  
Despite having accrued fifteen extra years to his life in the dreaming world, Arthur is uncomfortable exploring the psyche's of others when awake. He's content with sex that’s edging on vanilla, on boring. He’s flexible and he knows it, and normally that’s enough for his partners. It never seemed to bother Robert until that night.  
  
“I think we should try something new,” Fischer pants in his ear, a heavy warm weight on Arthur's spine. “When you get back.”  
  
Arthur’s body is thrumming with imminent release, hyper-aware and glowing. He’s on his knees, back arched and face buried in pillows.  
  
He wants to ask what, was this not good enough, but Robert keeps thrusting, a steady overwhelming pace of full, good pressure; all he manages is “I. What?” in between sucking in air.  
  
Robert licks right behind his ear, “You'll see,” and Arthur comes, spilling into Robert’s hand.  
  
-  
  
Arthur doesn’t go to visit Cobb.  
  
-  
  
When Arthur gets back, he calls Robert almost as soon as his plane lands. Robert sends a car to pick him up, to deposit him at his house in the city.  
  
The something new turns out to be bondage, which Arthur should have expected. He’s surprised that Robert wants to master him, though – he thought maybe he’d like an escape from the pressure of his own life. Then he thinks, no, he’s probably spent his whole life trying to be the one in control. He doesn’t really want to think about it past that.  
  
It’s kissing, slow, at first. Their bodies slot neatly together, slim and sharp boned. Arthur’s tanned, and less meticulous about his body hair, which he thinks Fischer resents.  
  
Robert peels him out of his suit and grins when he ends up with Arthur naked, standing in the middle of his guestroom. Robert’s clothed, enjoying the dichotomy Arthur’s allowing.  
  
“Arms over your head,” he says in a voice that’s husky, meant for seduction, and Arthur complies. He’s not sure if he should be aroused or wary.  
  
Robert ties them together, secures him to a hook that’s hanging in the ceiling. “I hope this holds -- it’s the first time I’ve used this bedroom’s hook.”  
  
Arthur laughs, ignoring the way it pulls his body uncomfortably. “Don’t tell me you have a whole harem of men tied up in different rooms in this mansion.”  
  
A flash of dark annoyance rips over his face before he smiles coolly. “Only you so far, Arthur.” He rolls the last syllable in his name and continues to circle Arthur’s body.  
  
Arthur’s stretched taut, arms suspended so high above his head that his body weight is almost entirely being held in his arms, his toes and the balls of his feet sliding across the wood floor. Robert brushes a light kiss over his mouth, and then heads out of the room.  
  
Arthur waits.  
  
He knows what the intent is. He’s supposed to be willing, pliant, or fighting for freedom, one of the two characters who should be trapped and helpless.  
  
But he’s too well trained for this. It’s hot because Fischer upped the heat as soon as he stepped out, trying to make it seem like Arthur’s been hanging for hours.  
  
By the time Fischer returns, it’s been fifteen minutes, almost exactly. Arthur thinks there was probably a timer set somewhere. He knows exactly how much pull he’d need to snap something above him to gain purchase on the floor, the right ways to dislocate his thumb to slide out of the rope. The amount of force to snap Fischer’s neck between his legs.  
  
“How are you doing?” Fischer asks softly, walking in behind him.  
  
“It’s interesting,” Arthur says, and his voice is hoarse, “Though have you tried this yourself? Maybe next time you should be the one all strung up.”  
  
“I need you to stay serious for this, Jesus,” Robert says, sounding exasperated.  
  
“I don’t do serious,” Arthur says, and he’s not lying.  
  
Fischer sighs and moves around behind him, making noises that Arthur can’t quite place.  
  
“I’m sure I’ll beat it into you,” Fischer says, his tone back to velvet coaxing as he lays a hand on his lower back and pushes two fingers inside, just spit slick.  
  
There’s something to his voice, something not quite right hiding underneath, but then he crooks his fingers at just the right angle and Arthur loses that train of thought completely.  
  
There’s more burn than he’s accustomed to but it’s actually nice to not have to think for once, to let someone else take the reins and just use him.  
  
He lets himself moan because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, and Robert grins against his shoulder and slides in another finger. That burn rolls into more pain then pleasure but he makes another sound, pliant suddenly when he wasn’t before.  
  
Arthur is starting to see the appeal.  
  
-  
  
They settle into a relationship, which catches Arthur off-guard. He goes with Fischer to a black tie event and makes nice with other beautiful men and women there with their incredibly rich partners, and gets drunk enough to be friendly.  
  
The next week at dinner Robert can’t stop smiling at him until Arthur finally asks him why and to please stop.  
  
“Oh. Everyone has just been telling me how lucky I am to have found you."  
  
Arthur doesn't blush, but he feels his face soften into a small smile.  
  
Robert continues, casual, "I think I might even believe them."  
  
-  
  
Sex isn’t always as complicated as Fischer wants to make it.  
  
What it is always like is this: Arthur on bottom. He’s flexible, and Robert’s creative, so he doesn’t mind for a stretch of time. But it’s not the only thing he likes.  
  
So it comes to this: when Fischer tries to flip Arthur over on his belly, Arthur doesn’t let him.  
  
“I want to fuck you,” Arthur says after taking a sloppy kiss to shut up whatever complaint was in Robert’s mouth. He’s straddling Arthur, who’s propped up on pillows against the headboard in Arthur’s hotel room. Arthur pulls away from the kiss hungry, wanting, and he pulls himself flush to Robert’s torso.  
  
Robert’s looking at him, considering. calculating something.  
  
“Come on, baby,” Arthur huffs into his skin. “I think I've done plenty to earn this. Fuck, I let you tie me up. I let you beat the shit out of me.”  
  
“I don't like not being in control,” Robert says, unapologetic, a shrug of his shoulders. The muscles shift – the carefully sculpted body of the rich, and he grabs Arthur's chin tight in his grip and kisses at him.  
  
Arthur doesn’t want to fight but he doesn’t know how to submit.  
  
“Why is sex always some kind of fucking power struggle with you?” Arthur snarls, yanking his head back. He thinks of how easy it would be to flip Robert over and to pin him to the bed. He doesn’t.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, Arthur.” Robert sounds cold but he’s grinning.  
  
He grabs lube off the table and Arthur tenses, not ready to give up, when Robert raises onto his knees and reaches back. It’s awkward but Arthur watches rapt - the lines of Robert’s pale body, the way he bites his pink lip down, the way his brown eyelashes flutter over wide eyes.  
  
Arthur wants to touch him and Robert isn’t letting him. Instead, Robert tosses him a condom which is slippery in his fingers as he slides it on.  
  
And there's not enough prep, and Robert is tightight _tight_  as he sinks onto Arthur's cock and they both pause, not looking at each other and sucking in air.  
  
“Jesus fuck, Robert,” he manages to say, and Fischer just smiles down at him, thighs flexing as he rides him, slowly. Their eyes meet then, and Arthur slides his eyes shut and his hands up on Fischer’s hips.  
  
He’s a sweet, hot clench around Arthur, and it’s quiet. Arthur rolls his hips up and Robert gasps and shivers.  
  
Robert jacks off slowly, but he comes first, soft hand wrapped around himself. Arthur’s sticky with it, hot jizz cooling as Robert lifts himself off Arthur and settles himself between his legs, crouched. Arthur pulls off the condom he’s wearing and tosses it somewhere, his mind hazy and slow with pleasure as Robert wraps his hand around his cock and takes it into his mouth.  
  
He stares at Arthur as he suckles and teases him, tongue flat and hot against the vein in Arthur’s dick.  
  
Arthur begs. His voice breaks. And he comes, pulsing hot and wrung out. He lays still on the bed and breathes “Thank you.”  
  
Robert smiles fondly and runs his hand over the short hair on Arthur’s scalp. It’s warm, comforting. “Of course, Arthur. I always take care of the things that belong to me.”  
  
-  
  
Later, Arthur will be able to put all these dark moments, flashes of anger, together to create an entire picture.  
  
Later.  
  
-  
  
They don’t see each other for a week or so after that, though Arthur sends a text and then thinks,  _stupid, stupid._  
  
“I have terrible taste in everyone,” he says to no one in his room. He wonders if this is how normal relationships work -- when there’s a fight, someone doesn’t just show up at a friend’s house with a bottle of wine and a PASIV.  
  
-  
  
Fischer is at his office at the end of a long Friday. Arthur wants to hate the job but his brain doesn’t mind data analysis, doesn’t mind market projections and sinks easily into graphs and charts.  
  
“Robert,” Arthur says and he feels suddenly giddy.  
  
“I’m sorry about the other night,” Robert says without much preamble after he kisses Arthur on the cheek.  
  
“Accepted,” he says, halfway because he’s startled by any apology at all. He’s learned not to expect them.  
  
“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” Robert says, slumped against the doorframe.  
  
And Arthur laughs. “You’re always the one who takes me out.”  
  
Robert doesn’t look ashamed.  
  
-  
  
Robert is already seated when Arthur arrives at the restaurant.  
  
“My father knew the owner,” he says with a lazy smile, not standing up, and Arthur wonders when they’d moved past formalities. He doesn’t remember any shift in their relationship, when they’d gotten lazy with each other. Fischer isn’t even wearing a suit jacket, but his tie is probably worth around $700.  
  
He doesn’t mind it, as he slips into the chair. It’s relaxed, it’s nice. It’s  _familiar_ , maybe.  
  
Robert asks him about his home life, his school. Arthur Cohen had the best the upper middle class had to offer, private schools and luxury vacations and top notch universities. Robert has no idea that Arthur is a millionaire, and he has no idea that Arthur joined the army because the scholarships just weren’t enough, in the end.  
  
And it doesn’t matter, because Robert doesn’t know Arthur. Arthur can’t say that he minds.  
  
They’re into their second bottle of wine. He notices that the restaurant is all but cleared out, though, only a few people straggling behind, settling checks.  
  
“I think we might want to move on to more current events.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says, because while he wasn’t thrilled about talking baseball, Fischer had started the conversation.  
  
He clasps his hands together and rests his chin on them. Robert’s gaze is sharp, knowing, when he asks “What's the most resilient parasite?”  
  
“Guinea worm,” Arthur says and tries not to sound like he's choking.  
  
Robert's eyes narrow in annoyance. “What.”  
  
“It’s a water supply issue, but it’s really quite nasty. You have to wrap it around a stick and slowly pull it out of whatever body part it’s dwelling in. Normally the feet.”  
  
Robert’s mouth quirks and he looks a little disappointed, and then he sighs.  
  
“Fine. Dom Cobb. What do you know about Dom Cobb?”  
  
And Arthur curses every person in Saito’s employ for not covering his tracks, thinks  _stupid, stupid_ , thinks he’s going to get someone else killed. His face is still though, the muscles in his jaw tight.  
  
“The extractor, Dom Cobb. I know you know each other. I’ve figured that much out,” he says, and he still doesn’t sound angry. “We have some photos. Not great ones.”  
  
“I. Are you sure it’s me?”  
  
Robert rolls his eyes, but then looks at him in earnest. “I just. I think something’s been done. To me, to my head.”  
  
Arthur swallows. “What do you mean?”  
  
And at that Robert looks lost. “I don’t  _know_  what I mean. That’s why I wanted. I need you to contact Dom Cobb.”  
  
Arthur just stares so Robert continues, flustered, hands raking through his hair. “I hear he’s the best. Look, the photos are old. I don’t care what you did, before. The photos, we got them in your background check and I just need you to tell me.”  
  
And now Arthur is angry. “You’ve been  _playing_  me to get to Cobb.”  
  
Robert’s face is normally set in an expression of bland indifference but he actually looks pained.  
  
“I won’t lie to you, Arthur. It was business at first, I thought. This would be faster, easier for both of us.” Arthur doesn’t reply, just watches and waits and thinks about the gun stored in his shoulder holster.  
  
“But...I trust you with this, now, I think.”  
  
Arthur thinks of Saito’s hand around his arm, how he said, “I hear you might need a job,” how Arthur had trusted him. How relieved Cobb had sounded on the phone, telling him that Saito was an honorable man.  
  
Each move unfolds in front of him like a chess game -- how Saito’s played him this whole time, how their work will either be erased by Arthur and Cobb or how they’ll have to go into Fischer’s mind and then lie to him, tell him there’s nothing there but here’s the name of a good psychiatrist. Saito’s covering tracks no one could even find.  
  
Except for Cobb. Except for Cobb and Arthur.  
  
“You shouldn’t trust me,” Arthur says darkly. He could stay, maybe, and call Cobb to Australia. The kids would love Sydney, probably like a vacation with their dad and favorite uncle.  
  
He could stay, and he could sooth Robert at night, card his hands through his hair when he feels crazy or on edge, like there’s something worming it’s way through his brain. Something at the edge of his memory. He could be there for him, pliant and open and warm.  
  
Arthur Cohen likes that Fischer is domineering, that he’s confident and knows how to take what he wants. He doesn’t know how to reconcile these two facts. Arthur outside of that skin wonders if everything has been a horrible mistake.  
  
Robert just looks at him. “Please, Arthur. I don’t know how to find him. I just need something. Anything.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes. He could move into Robert’s house -- they could fuck on furniture worth millions of dollars. He’d get promoted, grow his hair out. Go to parties and engagements together. Arthur Cohen could do it, be the idle boyfriend of one of the world’s richest CEOs. He’d be in bespoke for life. They could get a dog.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and his hand moves to his jacket. “I need to leave.”  
  
Fischer slumps, and then looks up and grabs Arthur’s other hand. “Stay. I want you to stay.”  
  
Arthur looks at him and thinks and wants to say “Okay,” so he does.  
  
-  
  
By the time dessert is brought out, the restaurant's empty. He isn’t sure why his neck is prickling with wariness but it is. He doesn’t know what to be afraid of here.  
  
Robert's smile is like a shark's mouth, too many teeth, and he’s watching Arthur intently.  
  
“It's not poisoned, is it?” Arthur asks as he lifts a spoon to crack open the lavender creme brulee.  
  
Robert doesn't laugh, looks puzzled. “What?”  
  
“You look like you can't wait for me to take a bite.”  
  
Fischer smiles turns a little wan and he leans over the table to crack open the sugar himself. Arthur watches the pink tip of his tongue dart out, to taste.  
  
“It’s not poisoned. I’m just ready to get on to the rest of our evening.”  
  
And that’s when Arthur pulls out his gun. Fischer snaps his fingers and about eight men, trained security emerge from the shadows and he’s surrounded by them.  
  
He wonders how many he can take down before he’s shot. Probably non-lethally, because Fischer’s leaning back in his chair like Arthur has a tendency to do, fingers steepled. Watching and trying not to look concerned.  
  
And fuck, if there’s one thing Arthur really really hates, it’s getting shot, so he slowly puts the gun down on the table.  
  
There’s a scuffle anyway, and Arthur breaks someone’s expensive goon sunglasses, and gets clocked in the face for his efforts.  
  
Fischer thinks he has the upper hand, but Arthur is fairly sure he’ll break first. One of the goons roughly grabs his arms and another one pushes him back in his chair, and his wrists are cuffed behind him.  
  
“Where is Dom Cobb?”  
  
Arthur laughs and spits some blood out of his mouth. “Seriously though. You didn’t hire me for anything to do with dreamshare.”  
  
Robert turns on his heel and tries a different tactic. “It’s interesting that you’ve held that position for six months, but your secretary’s never even seen you.”  
  
“How many times have you been kidnapped?” Arthur counters.  
  
The question makes Fischer take pause, as Arthur works the cuffs holding his hands together.  
  
“Fourteen times,” he says and pauses. “But I want to know why you’ve been hacking into our system. And I want to know what the fuck is wrong with my head.”  
  
“And how old were you each time? When was each?”  
  
He watches Fischer’s face as he slowly recollects, getting closer to the point of outraged realization, and then disbelief.  
  
“What are you even asking me?” Fischer says and he touches Arthur, puts his weight on his thighs, looms over him.  
  
“Is this how you treat every employee who’s suspected of having good intel? You fuck them and then handcuff them in your friend’s restaurant?”  
  
Fischer jerks back, and then he laughs. “My life isn’t quite that interesting.”  
  
Arthur thinks to himself  _Fuck it_  and breaks his own thumb. He almost bites through his lip because it hurts, it fucking hurts to snap the bone and then to slide his hand out of the cuff.  
  
His arms are free at around the same time that Fischer really and truly grasps what it means that he can’t pinpoint his fourteenth kidnapping. Arthur roundhouses the thug next to him, grabbing blindly at his gun on the table and miraculously gets it. He kneecaps two more men on his way out but someone manages to graze his ribs.  
  
He doesn’t stumble back like they expect and that’s what lets him run. The clean phone is in his hand before he’s down the street, picking out a car to hotwire.  
  
He takes Robert’s.  
  
-  
  
Arthur runs.  
  
He books a one way on Saito’s airline (because the man owes him now, owes him so much), glasses lost, baseball cap on, swimming in the hoodie of a university he’s never been to.  
  
On the plane, with his headphones over his ears, he looks like any other graduate student, lost amidst a sea of other unremarkable strangers.  
  
Arthur’s learned this lesson before.  
  
He doesn’t visit Dominick Cobb.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: So this is my super late thepurpledove story for the wonderful, generous, and patient hesselives . Thank you so much for letting me take my time. Also big thanks to sorrynotsorry & jibrailis for betaing and listening to me complain, and to bauble for telling me I was doing everything wrong. Title from the Mary Oliver poem.


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